


The Buckskin

by supercarXS



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Blood, F/M, Gun Violence, Guts - Freeform, Horses, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Original Character(s), and the wild west, so many horses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2019-10-04 02:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17295785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercarXS/pseuds/supercarXS
Summary: Arthur Morgan stumbles across a horse with a broken saddle and a story to tell ... and as it turns out, she's got a higher price on her head than he does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank Emma for permission to use her likeness. 
> 
> All royalties were paid in full in the form of horse cookies.

Arthur Morgan didn’t really have time for this shit, but he couldn’t justify leaving a perfectly good horse for dead.

He found the buckskin mare making her way through the Heartlands on the way back to Horseshoe Overlook. The story of her breakneck escape was told by the sweat and lather darkening her golden hide, pine needles and twigs snagged in her jet-black mane; she probably woulda kept the pace up, too, if not for getting hung up by her own saddle. _Cinch must be broke,_ Arthur figured. The heavy leather seat hung around the mare’s belly and she’d somehow managed to get her back leg through one of the stirrups. She kept on as best she could with her head low, hobbled by the iron around her hock.

“Easy, boy,” Arthur said to his own mount, the great iron-gray Ardennes stallion he called Big Boss, gently tugging the reins and settling his weight over the saddle to slow the heavy animal. Boss obeyed, pricking his ears in interest at the buckskin mare, his body vibrating with a low nicker.

Before he had a chance to second-guess himself, Arthur dropped Boss’s reins and swung his leg over the horse’s great back, dropping to the dirt with a slight grimace. His back was sore and his right bicep burned beneath the bloodied bandana-turned-bandage wrapped around his arm, compliments of an O’Driscoll’s shotgun. Hypnotized by the trail and fatigued from tracking down debtors and bounties, he hadn’t realized the rival gang was there ‘til they were right on top of him. It was all he could do to squeeze off a few shots and get the hell outta Dodge, get someplace he could take care of the fire in his arm.

The encounter had cost him two extra days already, and Arthur was certain that Dutch would be scanning the horizon, anxiously awaiting the return of his loyal gunslinger and the latest score, salivating over the thought of More Money.

Damn it, they always needed More Money.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his hat, then gave up whatever fight he was having with himself and lifted the lasso from its place around Boss’s saddle horn.

The buckskin mare would die to predators if he let her be, tied up as she was. Easy enough to cut away the wayward saddle, smack her on the rump and send her on her way. Problem with that plan was Arthur suspected the little mare would fetch a good price. Get More Money.

He coiled the rope in his hand.

“Hey there, girl,” he said to the mare. Her head shot up.

Pure quarter horse, he reckoned, and a pretty one. She had a small, stocky build, but what set her apart from the rest of the stock was the heavy muscle in the hind end. She had cutter blood in her, from a good line, too.

“Not gonna hurt ya,” Arthur murmured, stepping quietly over prairie grass and dust, curbing the impatient part of him that wanted to chuck the rope at the horse’s head and hope for the best. Instead, he hid it behind his back, feeling the thump of it striking his gun-belt with every step.

Poor mare was already coiled up to run, muscles quivering in anticipation, but she seemed to have figured out she couldn’t on account of the deal with the stirrup. She kept kicking at it but couldn’t quite loose herself.

Her reins were broken. Stripped leather swung from her bit, and Arthur cringed. Hoped she hadn’t tore her mouth up when she got free, but now that he was looking, he saw pink froth at the corners of her lips. Blood.

“Where’d ya come from?” Arthur said, dropping his voice to a soothing croon. “You ran pretty hard, didn’t ya, girl?”

The mare snorted.

Arthur still approached slow, like one misstep would cause the nervous horse to explode and mangle herself. “Yeah, you’re all right. Saddle’s not supposed to be like that, is it, now?” He was close enough now that he could feel the heat radiating from her body, hear the ragged breaths she was carving out of the air. “Shh, shh, I’m gonna fix it. Let me fix it.”

His fingertips brushed horse hide.

The mare flinched.

“No, no, don’t be like that. It’s ok. Shh.” Arthur flattened his palm against the mare’s neck, feeling her pulse as he followed the jugular hollow up to her jaw so he could take a hold of her broken bridle. She tossed her head, only a little bit, and with a quiet, practiced flick of his wrist, Arthur had the lasso over her head and against her withers.

“See? That’s it.” He undid the broken bridle’s throatlatch and lifted the leather away from the mare’s face. Just as he feared. The metal bit was bloody. He swiped it with a thumb, frowning deeply. Even so, the headstall was still in decent condition, so he slipped it over a shoulder and slowly faced the horse’s rear.

“Let’s take care of this, now,” he said, daring to kneel beside the tired mare. Yup. The latigo had snapped at some point during her run, but the belly strap held on, preventing the saddle from falling away completely. He released the leather belly strap and the heavy saddle smacked the ground with a puff of dust, causing the mare to dance a few steps to the side. Arthur quieted her with a pat to the rump as he ran his hand down the front of her hind leg, feeling carefully for hot spots, blood, swelling, anything that would indicate an injury caused by the stirrup.

She felt ok. Nothing glaringly obvious. Arthur took a hold of the mare’s fetlock and clucked his tongue at her, relieved when she obeyed and lifted her foot to be examined. Took a little bit of finessing but he finally released her leg from its entrapment. She set her foot down heavily and blew through her lips. Arthur half-expected her to dance away and take off again, but his white knuckles on the rope were for naught. Poor thing was too tired to go anywhere, apparently.

He led her back toward Big Boss, who let out a low nicker once again and reached out his nose in curiosity. He jerked back in surprise when the mare laid her ears flat and snaked her head at him in warning.

Looping the rope around the saddle horn, Arthur just laughed. “Play nice with him, girl,” he said, easily swinging himself back into the saddle. Then, patting Boss on the neck apologetically:

“Sorry, boy. Ain’t sure you’re really her type.”

* * *

Another hour’s ride saw Arthur, Boss and the buckskin mare loping into camp with darkness at their backs. The mare carried her broken saddle, fastened with a bit of rope Arthur kept on his saddle for tying up game. Other’n being a bit stiff on the one leg, she seemed to be in good shape. Kept pace with Boss’s powerhouse of a lope no problem once she put that big ole quarter horse rump to work.

“I’ll blow your head off,” growled a voice in the shadow behind a tree.

“No, ya won’t, dumbass,” Arthur shot back. “It’s me. Arthur.”

“Sheeeeit. Thought you were dead,” the voice replied, and its owner, Bill, melted out of the shadows with his rifle in hand. Arthur suspected he was only half-kidding.

“Nah.” Arthur rubbed at the back of his neck, looking down at Boss’s withers. “I miss much?”

“Same old, same old.” Bill jerked his head in the direction of the camp’s firelight. “Been askin’ after ya. Better git yer ass in there.”

“Huh.” Arthur squeezed his calves against Boss’s sides and took both horses to the clearing where the rest of the herd browsed for grass. A few raised their heads and whinnied a relieved greeting at their friend’s return, but flicked their ears at the new addition. Arthur dismounted and removed Boss’s bridle, knowing full well the stallion wouldn’t go anywhere. The mare he untacked and tied to a hitching post with enough slack in the line to let her graze, but not enough for her to trip herself on.

“Gotta find a spare headstall,” he said to himself as he loosened Boss’s girth and took the heavy gray saddle into his arms, pretending not to notice the soreness in his left arm. The horse sighed in relief and went to join his buddies, but not before casting a suspicious (and mildly hurt) glance at the buckskin tethered beside him. She ignored him.

“Arthur!”

That was Karen, leaping up from her bedroll and dashing toward him in a flurry of dust and petticoats. “You fool, we all –”

“Thought me dead. Yeah, yeah.” Arthur waved her off and turned toward his own campsite, taking care to keep his wounded arm out of sight. He didn’t do a very good job, apparently, because the blonde woman flitted around to his other side and had him by the elbow. He grunted in pain and almost let go of the saddle. “Watch it!”

Unheeding to his warning, the woman gasped. “What happened? Arthur, you’re bleeding!”

“Eh, not so bad now,” he said dismissively, shrugging her off as he set back toward his campsite. “Worse a couple days ago.”

“Couple days …? Arthur! Don’t you walk away from me! Let me see!”

“What the hell, Morgan? Where you been?” Marston glared over his shoulder, eyes glinting in the firelight as Arthur passed. The shadows set the fresh scars on his cheek to writhing like snakes.

“He’s alive!” Pearson chimed in from his post at the stew pot.

“He’s hurt,” Karen clipped.

“Hurt? How bad?” Javier stood from his bench.

“Just a scratch,” Arthur said. “I’m fine.”

“You’re _not_ fine! Look at all that blood!” Karen was at his shoulder again, yanking his sleeve.

Arthur hissed through his teeth and twisted out of her grasp, fully and painfully aware of the gang’s eyes boring into his shoulder blades as he marched toward the awning that protected his bedroll.  Soon as he had the saddle on the ground, he yanked his weathered hat low over his brow, flipped open his satchel and made for the collection box outside of Dutch’s tent. Without a word, he emptied the contents onto the barrel beside the box, picked out his agreed share, and pocketed it.

Spinning on the heel of a boot and dead-set on making it back to his bedroll before catching any more flak, he just about barreled into Susan Grimshaw.

“Mr. Morgan,” she snapped.

Cornered now, Arthur sighed heavily in his throat, swallowed hard, then lifted his gaze to meet that of the intimidating woman. “Miss Grimshaw.”

“Sit down, Mr. Morgan.” Susan somehow managed to peer down her nose at the injured man, though he stood a full head taller than her.

Casting his eyes to the sky, he shook his head. “Look, I don’t –”

“ _Now._ ”

Arthur paused a fraction of a second, realized there was no way he was gonna win this one, and sat down heavily on an empty bench next to the fire. His hat went on the bench beside him and he thrust his face into his hands, scrubbing at hair that was heavy and greasy and in desperate need of a wash, rolling grit through the pads of his fingers and pushing so hard on his eyelids that colors began to dance.  

There were hands on his wounded arm now. He tried to pull away, but was stalled by Miss Grimshaw’s steely glare when he looked up. He surrendered and dropped his chin to his chest.

The bandana, crusted and stiff with dried blood, came away, and Arthur heard a gasp. “Oh, God – Arthur,” said Karen, apparently assigned the role of playing nurse. “This … this is downright _awful_.”

Yeah, it _was_ pretty awful. Awful enough to knock him on his ass for half a day while he tried to figure out how not to bleed out and stay hidden at the same time. Still felt awful, too, like he’d gotten a hot branding iron stuck in the muscle. Was that bad? That was probably bad.

“We must see it,” Miss Grimshaw said sharply.

Numbly, Arthur undid his cotton button-down, shrugging out of the one sleeve with some effort and letting the garment hang off his opposing shoulder, feeling mildly self-conscious as the center of attention. Karen gently observed the wound, lifting his arm to study it from all angles, and he looked away.

“What happened?”

Arthur wasn’t sure whose voice demanded that, but he _was_ sure he didn’t care. He scuffed a boot through the dirt and cleared his throat. “Ran into some O’Driscolls.”

“… And?”

“They shot at me.”

“Yeah, no shit.” That was Marston from behind. “Here. You’re gonna need these.” There was the sound of a glass bottle striking wood, a _thump_ of something else placed on the bench.

“What for?” Arthur cocked an eyebrow and cast a glance to the side, saw an unopened bottle of bourbon within the coil of a thick leather belt. Feeling the sweat on his brow for the first time, he shifted his gaze upward and picked out Marston in the fire’s glow.

The younger man lifted a shoulder. “That shrapnel’s gotta come out and it ain’t gonna feel good.”

“Aw, hell.” Frowning, Arthur peered at his shot arm. Couldn’t really see anything, but it hurt like hell now that he was thinking about it, so he uncapped the bourbon with his teeth and took a long pull, willing the burn in his throat to spread its numbness quicker. He swallowed, took the traces off his lips with the tip of his tongue, and drawled, “You sure? Coulda swore it went straight through.”

“There’s no exit wound, moron.”

“God _dammit.”_ Arthur took another drag of bourbon. His head started to buzz. Or was he just tired? Who cared. He sat there a minute, watching the smoke draw patterns in the night sky, trying real hard not to think about how much his damned arm hurt or how much worse it was about to get.

He picked up the belt with his good arm, downed some more bourbon for the road, and slid the leather between his teeth.

* * *

 _Aw man,_ Arthur thought when he came to the next morning. _Damn sky ain’t there._

It was, of course; he just couldn’t see it beyond his tent, not ‘til he rolled over and sat up, dirty blankets pooling in his lap. He scrubbed his palms over his eyes with a grunt of mild discomfort. The only remnants from the night before were the taste of cowhide on his tongue and the deep ache of damaged muscle twitching in his upper arm, and he was glad for the gap in his memories. He considered himself a tough man and could take one hell of a beating, but even those with the roughest hides had their limits.

Fetching his satchel from its place hanging from his wagon, Arthur produced a pencil and his leather-bound journal, sat there staring out over the hills a minute while he strung together words to put on the page.

_Made it back to camp. Honestly, there were a few times there I didn’t think I would, but here I am. I’m tired as hell and everything hurt but I guess that means I’m alive. Alive and free._

He tapped the pencil on the page, chewing his lower lip.

_O’Driscolls did a number on me. Shotgun shrapnel hurt worse coming out than it did going in, and I remember Susan said she weren’t sure it’s all out. Certainly won’t be the first bullet fragment to become a permanent part of me, but the thought of it still makes me a little ill._

“Mornin’, Arthur.”

“Charles,” Arthur said, dipping his head in respect as the man paused in front of his tent.

“You bring in that little mare?” Charles jerked his chin in the direction of the herd.

Arthur nodded. “Yup.”

“You thinking of keeping her?”

He shrugged. “Ain’t decided yet.”

“She’s a good-looking animal,” Charles said over his shoulder as he went about his business. “I’d give it some thought, I were you.”

“Haven’t written her off yet.” Arthur slotted his pencil between the pages and threw his sore shoulders back, releasing the tension in his upper spine with a chorus of _pops_ , before hunching back down over the small book.

_I came across a horse yesterday. Little buckskin mare. Her saddle was broke and she’d made it halfway through the Heartlands with her foot through one of the stirrups. I don’t know how long she was like that and I took pity on her. She doesn’t seem hurt and she’s got some good bloodlines I think, so she might be worth something. I’ll find out soon, maybe._

_I think Big Boss would be jealous if I hung onto her._


	2. Chapter 2

Eyes on the target, Arthur sure was glad he decided against heading into this one unarmed. That mare just did not seem to like him.

She’d managed to level a perfectly circular patch of grass overnight. Wood creaked as she strained against the hitching post she was tethered to, lipping at the juicier bits just beyond her reach. Her head shot up when Arthur clucked his tongue, but she switched her ears back when she realized who he was. She snorted and stamped a foreleg, sizing him up from beneath her bushy forelock, squared off with her weight rocked back on her rump.

“Hey, now,” Arthur said, showing his hands submissively, carefully shifting the rope draped over his shoulder out of sight. “Easy, girl. You know me. I’m that ugly feller who saved you.”

She snorted and threw her mane from one side to the other.

“Oh, come, now. Don’t be like that.” Arthur slowed his pace, dipped his hand into his crossbody satchel, withdrew the slightly bruised apple he’d snagged from Pearson’s chuckwagon. “Just for you, if you’ll have it, girl.”

That got her attention. She pricked her ears at the apple presented on a flattened palm, then pinned them again, apparently torn between her disdain for Arthur and her desire for the treat. Still, she stayed put as he came ever closer. He was careful to stay outta the way of her powerful hind end. She was coiled to kick and he didn’t want to be on the wrong end of the barrel.

“Ah, the best horse charmer this side of Saint Denis hard at work.” Dutch’s baritone rode above the camps hubbub, accompanied by the clink of spurs made heavy by the weight of the saddle in the man’s arms. “Our very own Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur peered over his shoulder, careful to stay facing the buckskin mare, who was now watching Dutch with a cautious eye. “You been out?”

“Had some business to attend to,” Dutch replied with that cool overtone of his he used to disguise the fact that he was avoiding an explanation. He gestured as best he could with his arms occupied and changed the topic. “How’s the arm?”

Arthur rolled his shoulder, feeling his skin tighten against the shotgun wound now freshly bandaged beneath his shirt. “Sore, but I think I’m gonna live, unfortunately.”

A good-natured smirk pulled at Dutch’s mouth. He nodded at Arthur as he passed. “Well, I don’t want to interrupt you, Arthur. When you get a moment, come find me. I’d like to discuss your recent escapades.”

Arthur’s shoulders drooped just a bit. “Shoah,” he drawled over his shoulder as Dutch strode into camp, hefting his saddle up onto one shoulder as he went. Arthur watched him a moment, trying not to work himself up about the whole deal, when the air close to his hand suddenly got a lot warmer. The prick of trimmed whiskers followed, then the velvety feel of a muzzle across his hand, seeking out the smooth apple.

He flattened his palm again and let the buckskin mare take the fruit. “Knew you’d come around,” he said softly, carefully letting his hand rest on her neck. This time she didn’t even flinch, and Arthur carefully patted her a few times, ruffled her black mane at her crest. “There, girl.”

All things considered, she was pretty clean. Her golden coat shone with health. He ran his hands down the mare’s back, feeling the curve of her spine for injury, prodded his fingers into the solid muscle along her hind legs. He went for the leg she’d got wrapped up in the stirrup, feeling critically for inflammation that might’ve shown overnight. She swished her tail at his wandering hands but did not react otherwise. Good. 

“Well, girl,” he murmured, slipping the rope from his shoulder as he stood. “Let’s see what you got.”

The rope wasn’t really a rope, not anymore – it was a makeshift hackamore he’d fashioned himself. He stood, wincing at the stiffness in his saddle-sore back; ignoring it, he went for the mare’s face, hooking a hand under her lower jaw and pushing her lips back with the other hand. The soft toothless part of her jaw was red and torn from her bit, and she tossed her head impatiently.

Arthur frowned. _I’ll hafta pick up some ointment,_ he thought. _Nobody’s gonna want a horse with a ruined mouth._

“Hey, Arthur.” That was Marston’s familiar rasp. “You ridin’ out?”

He shrugged. “Was gonna go to the river, see how she handles. Why?”

Paper snapped as Marston waved a piece of parchment around. “Pearson’s got a shopping list and we’re runnin’ low on gunpowder and gun oil. Couple of us are headin’ to Valentine. Nice easy ride. If you can’t stay on that wild thing, you can double back.”

Squinting at the afternoon sun, Arthur slipped two fingers under the brim of his hat and scratched at his hairline. “Shoah. Let’s get the hell on before the girls catch wind of it.”

* * *

Arthur always preferred riding bareback. Sure, saddles provided extra handholds and storage for weapons and game and the like, but there just wasn’t anything like sitting right on the horse, feeling the sway of her belly as she walked, the shift of muscle beneath smooth hide, the warmth of her breathing sides against the insides of his knees. After a while, Arthur couldn’t tell where he ended and his horse began.

The buckskin mare was sound, thankfully, and whoever had trained her had done a remarkable job; she turned on a dime when Arthur neck-reined her in a serpentine pattern behind the others, responded easily to the shifts in his legs and seat to control her. Her jog was smooth as butter, but he noticed she pinned her ears and swished her tail every time he asked for more speed, like she was irritated he was making her work harder.

All in all, she was a smooth ride … until he asked for a lope.

Damn horse took off like a steam engine, shoving off her hind legs and lunging into the first stride with enough ferocity Arthur almost slipped right off the back of her. His knee-jerk reaction was to clamp his knees around her belly and take up a handful of mane to steady his balance. Worked for a few strides, but just as he’d started to settle himself square over her back again, she tucked her rear beneath her and slid to a halt.

There are times when a horseman has to decide whether to ride something out or bail. Arthur chose the latter.

“Son of a bitch!” He spat as he pitched over the mare’s shoulder and took the ground to his knees. Rocks tore into his denim pants and scraped him up; he threw a gloved hand out to keep his face from smacking the earth and was rewarded with the sharp pain of a rock in his palm and a burst of heat at his arm. He thought it might be the shotgun wound reopening.

“You ok?” Javier reined his pinto up beside Arthur, preparing to dismount as the others drew up alongside him.

Arthur stood, hands on his knees, checked to make sure everything still worked. It did. “Damn,” he spat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the dark shape of his hat and walked gingerly over to it. Oh, he was gonna feel this one tomorrow. Excellent.

And – goddammit – John was laughing at him.

“Oh, boy, she’s got you aaaall figured out already,” the younger man cried from his place still posed atop his horse. Arthur yanked his hat down over his brow and glared at Marston with a set jaw, which just caused him to have a fit all over again. He slapped his thigh. “I never seen a horse successfully buck you off, Arthur. You only come off when they quit moving and you don’t.”

“Shut it.” Arthur sucked dirt off his teeth and spat to the side, half-expecting to see the buckskin mare high-tailing it the hell outta Dodge, fully surprised to find her standing a few feet away.  

“I meant that a compliment, but if you wanna to turn around, we won’t fault you for it.”   

“Shut the hell up, Marston.” Arthur threw the reins back over the mare’s head as John chuckled behind him. He grabbed a handful of mane and clambered back on less-than-gracefully. The mare looked up from her grass, twisting around to lock eyes with him.

Arthur couldn’t help it. He leaned forward and hissed into the mare’s ear, “Don’t even think about doin’ that again.”

She snorted, but Arthur was pretty damn sure she meant it as a laugh.

* * *

By the time they trotted into Valentine, they’d come up with a pretty solid plan of attack. Lenny and Javier were in charge of visiting the butcher’s stand and the general store to check the boxes on Pearson’s list, Marston was to handle all things weapon-related at the gunsmith, Charles was tasked with purchasing medicines and other provisions, and Arthur was left to his own devices. They agreed to meet up in an hour at the saloon because _damn it,_ they all needed a stiff drink and a decent meal that didn’t consist of overcooked stew.

“Easy, girl,” Arthur said as he split from the group and pointed the buckskin in the direction of the livery. He thought about getting a price on her. Maybe. Not yet. He really wanted to fix that bridle and hook the saddle up with a new latigo, then see what he could get out of the deal. Horses with tack went for more than without, especially if it was fit right. He’d get supplies, repair everything, and then send her off to whoever her next owner might be.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

He drew her up in front of the livery, dismounted and threw her reins over the hitching post right outside. Evening had made itself known right quick. In the red sunlight, Arthur noticed the mare’s coat wasn’t solid gold, but instead flecked with reds and smoky-black dappling. There was a particularly interesting patch on her shoulder, almost …

“Huh.” Arthur passed his fingers over the mare’s hide, his hand casting long shadows across her body in the fading light. There was a marking on her shoulder. Thick, like scar tissue, too intricate to be an accident.

She was branded. It was a chevron with the letter _S_ nestled in the point.

He thumbed at the brand. The buckskin mare blinked at him through long lashes, almost sadly, exhaling through her nose. He wondered what it meant – the brand, that is. He’d have to ask. Not now. Now wasn’t the time. He had a mission.

A few minutes later, he walked out with new leather reins, enough leather to repair the latigo on the broken saddle, a glass pot of salve for the mare’s ruined mouth. He fitted everything into his satchel, thumbed a few bills into the stable’s owner’s waiting hands, and strode back out into the evening.

“Didn’t take too long, girl,” he murmured to the mare, unhooking her reins from the rail with one hand and pushing her forelock to the side with the other. “I need a drink. No thanks to you.”

She snorted and shook out her mane, but followed docilely.

“You need a name,” Arthur said as she fell into step beside him. Nah. That was probably a bad idea. He was selling her, after all. No reason to tempt himself to get attached.

Arthur never could understand how people could trade horses like they would a wagon. They were living, breathing creatures – creatures with as much personality as the people they worked for, if you knew what to look for. He’d sold horses, lost ‘em to wolves, put ‘em down himself from a broken leg, and each one left a mark upon him. He remembered Adam, the graceful bay saddlebred he’d jacked from a wealthy Southern matron, felled by colic; Willie, the surefooted roan mustang stolen from him in a raid gone wrong; the big gray quarter horse, Rowdy, he sold off to help the gang survive the winter … each left him with a heavy heart and a promise not to let himself get attached ever again, but of course, that never worked. Just ask Big Boss.

“All right, girl,” Arthur said to the buckskin mare. He was close to the saloon now. Patting the mare on the neck, he hitched her once again, this time next to the rickety boardwalk. “Won’t be long.”

She glared at him. _Yeah, sure._

* * *

It started out quiet enough. It always did.

Arthur bellied up to the bar through the crowd of gunslingers, travelers, city-slickers and maidens, flagged down the bartender.

“Whiskey,” he said. “Whatever’s strongest. And git yourself somethin’, too.”

The barkeep picked up the two coins, eyed them critically, then nodded. “Thanks, mister.” He turned to face the haphazard shelves of alcohol, jaw working as he muttered to himself reading each label. He settled on a roundish bottle with mountains etched into it and poured into a shot glass liquid the color of dark honey.

Arthur picked it up, held it up to the dying sunlight. The whiskey danced like captured flame. Burned like it, too. Arthur threw the stuff back and swallowed, relishing the burn and the taste as it worked through him. Still, even with the alcohol warmth in him, he felt the cold prick of eyes on the back of his neck.

He brought the shot glass down and stiffened up, hand going reflexively for the revolver on his right hip. His shotgun was slung across his back. His heart drummed against the leather strap holding the weapon in place, its weight a solemn comfort against his spine. The atmosphere had changed. He wasn’t sure how, but it had, and that was usually a bad thing.

The feeling of peculiarity got real strong when a couple bowlegged outriders in trail-worn chaps approached the bar, flanking him on either side. One had a threadbare denim coat, the other a faded flannel with the sleeves rolled up. Both were armed, and both were trouble.

“Evenin’ fellas,” Arthur said, signaling the barkeep to bring him another, making a point to stare straight ahead. “If ya don’t mind, there’s plenty room on the other side of the bar. My friends’ll be here soon and I promised them a prime seat at this … fine establishment.”

“Just gotta question for you,” Flannel said, leaning dangerously close to Arthur’s face, “ _if ya don’t mind._ ”

“I think I do mind,” Arthur replied gruffly, accepting the fresh shot the bartender slid to him. “Not really in the mood to shoot the breeze with a coupla hard cases I ain’t never met.”

“That your horse out there? The buckskin?” Denim threw a bill onto the bar.

Arthur threw the second shot back. Not a good idea. He needed to be sharp. “What of it?”

“Just wanna know where you got her is all,” Flannel drawled.

“Couldn’t tell ya.” Arthur’s hand fitted to the familiar grip of his revolver.

“You should,” Denim said. “Might regret it if you don’t.”

When Arthur breathed in, he felt the all-too-familiar jab of a gun’s barrel at his ribs.  


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

The saloon was quiet. The man on the out-of-tune piano plinked out some ditty Arthur recognized but couldn’t slap a name to. Glasses clinked together, against wooden tabletops; silverware and dishes clashed, the hum of voices over the rims of beverages and poker games hung low to the ground, broke up every now and then by the slap of a patron making his way through the doors. Arthur breathed, and so felt the enemy weapon nestle into in the soft, meaty part of his lower back.

“Please tell me that is a gun,” he said, sow low the words almost didn’t reach his own ears.

Denim’s forearm tensed as he drew back the hammer. “Bet you wish it weren’t.”

“You goddamn fools.” Arthur looked up at the ceiling, just past the curvature of his hat’s brim, weighing his options one last time. He really, really did not want to fight. (Not now, anyway.) Dutch wouldn’t be happy, but Arthur reckoned his boss would just have to deal with it.

The saloon door cracked open again with the whine of dirty hinges. Arthur wasn’t sure whether to feel uneasy or relieved – it was Marston in the doorway. He strode through the bar, spurs jingling in time with his bowlegged walk, head on a swivel as he swept the crowd. His eyes settled on Arthur. “Hey, Morgan,” he called out, lengthening his stride some, but he walked short again when Arthur shot him a warning look. He drew to a halt, his hand fit to the grip of his holstered sidearm.

_Tread careful, Marston_ , Arthur thought, and got ready to move.

“Hey,” John barked, causing more than a few drunken heads to snap in his direction. “Watch where you’ve got that thing pointed, boy.”

“Back off, cowboy,” Denim snapped, jabbing his gun further into Arthur’s side. “This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.” 

“You’re ‘bout to put a bullet in a friend of mine, so, yeah, I’d say it’s got somethin’ to do with me.” Marston drew his pistol but kept his finger off the trigger and the muzzle to the floor. 

Denim froze. He knew he was busted now, and people didn’t take too kindly to those that shot men in the backs. The piano trailed off and silence fell like a blanket. Wood creaked and cloth whispered as a handful of men prepared to draw, and Arthur dared believe these strangers were inclined to side with him for once.

Denim must’ve had the same thought – he backed his gun away from Arthur, but left it cocked. A message: _We ain’t done._

“Take it outside, fellas,” the barkeep said from his post. Arthur caught him in a lateral field of vision and noted he stood with his hand on something beneath the bar. Twelve-gauge, probably. Good for him.

John, squared off, watched Arthur’s assailants with fire in his eyes. The two grungy outriders shared a glance. Arthur’s blood was up and his heart hammered in his throat. He wasn’t scared, though.

 Yeah, _now_ he wanted to fight.

He shoved off the bar and strode to the door, twisting his shoulder out of the way to clear John’s, and made for the Valentinian night, only slightly miffed when the kids with the guns followed.

John caught up to him first. “What’s this about?”

“The mare.” Arthur looked down, shifted his pistol belt so it rode higher on the hip beneath his dominant hand.

“What for?”

“Evidently, they want her bad,” Arthur replied, and that was all he had time to say. He scanned the street for the horse in question. He found her, but she wasn’t where she was supposed to be – she had all fours planted in the mud, her weight rocked back on her haunches, her ears flat back against her neck as she braced against the man hauling on her face. A streak of fury lit through Arthur as the bastard gave the reins of the rope hackamore a savage tug. The mare popped up, striking out with a foreleg.

That was it.  

Arthur drew his pistol and showed the wrong end of the barrel to the dirty kid trying to make off with the frustrated mare. Kid looked about the same type as the two in the saloon – mismatched and holey clothes, probably hadn’t seen a bar of soap for weeks. He looked at Arthur, something like shock crossing his unremarkable features, but his eyes locked on something just over his shoulder.

Arthur realized too late what that meant.

He weren’t sure who pulled the trigger first. The bullet whizzed just past his ear and embedded itself in the side of one of the buildings on the opposite side of the street before he even thought to duck. The mare threw her head between her knees and lashed out with her hind legs. Arthur showed his teeth snapped his gun in the direction of the shot, let a bullet fly before he even really had a target. Blood slung into the night and Flannel screamed as he was thrown to the dust, dropping a gun that still smoked.

“You idiot!” Denim screamed from the saloon doors. “If you shoot the damn horse, we don’t get paid –” but his sentence was lopped off as Marston took a fistful of his shirt and threw him into the dirt, pushing his revolver against the back of the bastard’s head. By now a smattering of bystanders had gathered at the windows of the saloon and the hotel across the street, amused but not overly concerned by the scene unfolding in the muddy street.

Arthur bristled under the weight of their stares, but threw his shoulders back and called up his best outlaw impression. “Unhand that horse,” he snarled at the kid who now stood trembling with a hand reached behind his back. “If you draw that weapon, I’ll see fit to put you down right there, understand?”

The kid raised both hands, dropping the mare’s reins. She shied away from the motion, forcing air through her flared nostrils, sides heaving like bellows.

Arthur put a hand to her damp neck. “You got ‘em, Marston?”

“Covered,” John said.

Arthur trained his weapon on the kid. “One move,” he growled, and that was enough; the kid nodded, apparently scared shitless by the prospect of his life flashing before his eyes. Good. Still peering down his sights, Arthur stepped carefully across the muddy street, keeping an eye on the reflections in the windows of the shops lining the boardwalk, just in case one of them moved. They didn’t, and Arthur took the mare’s reins back, shushing her through his teeth as she sidestepped in agitation.

“You follow, you won’t make it very far,” he said, lifting his voice. Not that he really needed to; the air had gone completely still. “Understood?”

“We ain’t the ones you should worry about,” said Denim, dangling from Marston’s grasp.

Arthur’s world ground to a crawl. In his head, he already heard the _crack_ of gunfire and maybe even the white-hot pain that sometimes followed, but when he remembered to breathe out and let his senses flow back out into the world he realized nothing had come of it. Denim was in the mud now while his partner writhed in pain beside him. Other than that, not a soul moved, except for Marston, who slowly mounted his horse and used the animal’s height to tower over their attackers.

“What you mean by that?” he rasped.

Denim was at his flannel-clad friend’s side, dragging the poor shot-up feller to his feet. “That mare,” he snapped, thrusting his chin toward Arthur and the buckskin. “There’s a price on her head.”

Arthur’s head jerked back in surprised. “A bounty? On a goddamned _horse_?”

“—And we aim to take it. Well, us and everyone else.” The kid raised slit eyes at Arthur.

Arthur raised both eyebrows but said nothing. He then turned to the buckskin mare, who seemed rather fed up with the whole deal, and took up a handful of her coal-black mane. He rocked back on his heels and bounced twice to get enough momentum to mount up.

“Watch your back, cowboy,” came the sneer from behind.

Arthur did not so much as flick an ear in acknowledgement of the threat. However, as he gently turned the mare with pressure from his outside leg and spur, he thumbed back his revolver’s hammer.

This night was far from over.


End file.
